


Creating the Winter Soldier

by BirdDameron



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Torture, Violence, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 04:16:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6358963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BirdDameron/pseuds/BirdDameron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>steps:<br/> 1. Break Bucky Barnes<br/>2. reassemble into asset<br/>3. keep systems updated<br/>4. allow asset to become obsolete<br/>5. pick up the pieces</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Break Bucky Barnes

**Author's Note:**

> unedited

1944  
Name: James Buchanan Barnes  
Rank: Sergeant  
Serial number: 32557038  
Status: prisoner of war   
The prisoner sat inside his cell, right arm holding his left shoulder, keeping pressure on a stitched closed amputation. He didn’t react to soldiers marching past, orders barked in German that he ignored.  
“Sergeant Barnes, is it?”  
He looked up. A man in a lab coat with the HYDRA insignia stitched to the pocket stood in front of him. “hmm. Subject responsive” he muttered to himself, scribbling on a clipboard.  
Bucky stared at the insignia why in hell is the HYDRA logo an octopus? They have lots of tentacles not lots of heads. He snorted, thinking of an octopus with multiple heads, and willfully ignoring the doctor in front of him. Eventually he went away.  
He didn’t resist when they moved him out of the cell and into a 6’ by 12’ concrete room. It had a surveillance camera and one bare lightbulb on the ceiling too high to reach. The back wall had a bench spanning it, and the side wall had a toilet and sink. The door was steel, several inches thick, and he heard multiple locks and deadbolts click.  
I’ve only got one arm what the hell do they think I’m gonna do, hip-check ‘em to death?  
The room was damp and cold, as if it were far underground. Bucky figured it probably was, but he’d been unconscious while they dragged him in here. So he didn’t know. Didn’t know where he was, only that he’d been captured by a bunch of Nazis instead of dying like he rightfully should have. He swallowed down the terror rising in his throat and tried to think, shook his head in a vain attempt to clear it. By the way the room spun, he figured he’d been heavily drugged. Anesthesia. Surgery. Right.  
He staggered over to the bench and curled up on it. It’s gonna be alright, Steve’ll come find me, and it’ll be okay.  
He drifted off, somewhere between sleep and unconsciousness.

He woke to a bright light and a medical examination table. He was strapped down, in only boxers, with an IV drip in his remaining arm. He looked around, eyes wide and terrified. The same scientist from earlier was standing over him with a syringe full of some clear liquid. Bucky watched helplessly as the syringe lowered towards him, squeezing his eyes shut when it touched his neck, and biting his tongue as whatever liquid it was, was injected into him. As he lay there, everything seemed to get more intense. The lights got brighter, the whir of machines and voices deafening, and the feel of the cold metal table overwhelming. Then pain. He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear for screaming, his whole body felt as if its skin was being ripped off. Then everything faded to black again.

Subject responded negatively to test- indication of successful sensory enhancement.

When Bucky awoke, it was to a darkened room and a splitting headache. A projector screen was in front of him, displaying Nazi propaganda, anti-American , anti-Semitic bullshit.  
“The Americans are weak” “America claims to stand for progress, for freedom, but all it brings is death to the rest of the world”  
Bucky tried to tune out the droning voice-over. It was too loud, he could barely process the sounds, only that they were loud and needed to stop.  
“America wants to destroy –“  
Bucky shoved the projector set over onto the floor, and started shredding the film, ripping it with his teeth. The sound came from somewhere else. He growled, lurched out of the chair he was in, and proceeded to smash everything in the room until it was quiet and completely dark. He collapsed in a heap of broken machinery, curled into himself. Steve will come, he has to.  
He couldn’t tell how long he’d been curled up on the floor whimpering and crying, but eventually he was dragged back to his room by two heavily armed and armored guards.

 

“Beep”  
“beep”  
“beep”  
It had been days since he’d slept, he couldn’t ignore the beeping. Once every 5 seconds. “Beep.” It was the only way to tell time. Every 30 minutes, he reminded himself Steve will get here soon, I’ll be okay, he’s gonna save me. He has to.  
He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, eyes burning and vision blurry. Fractured images danced across his view as voices screamed in his brain. Trying to ignore Zola muttering about him being the perfect test subject, Steve yelling about rights or liberty or something, mixing with his father bellowing in anger and his own voice sobbing uncontrollably. Unable to stand any of it anymore, Bucky slammed his head back into the concrete with all the force he could muster, finally sliding away into unconsciousness.  
He awoke to a heavily bandaged head, a splitting headache, and a doctor shining bright lights into his eyes. Squeezing his eyes hut again, he slid back into sleep.  
The next time we woke, he was back in the projector room, only strapped down this time.  
“Captain America betrayed you”  
“no. no he didn’t no he wouldn’t STOP IT”  
“He is a traitor. He is the reason you are here. He did not save you.”  
“He’s gonna come, he’s gonna save me, he’s gotta-” Bucky’s voice broke.  
The projector showed footage from the stupid films Steve had made and the footage from when the howling commandos had been followed around by dicks with cameras, or interviewed, Bucky couldn’t remember, couldn’t think clearly, and the footage of Steve was interrupted by pictures of battlefields, of concentration camps, death camps, the goriest and the worst parts of the war.  
“None of that was Steve, none of that was him, it wasn’t Steve, none of that was Steve” Bucky repeated it to himself like a mantra, eyes squeezed shut.  
He didn’t know how long it took to change that mantra to “it was Steve, that was Steve,” but by the time it had, he didn’t fully know who Steve was anymore, just that the Americans had betrayed and left him for dead, and that HYDRA would bring order to the world. He didn’t question whether or not order was good, just did what they told him to do.   
Subject has lost sense of identity. Brainwashing techniques successful.  
Name: N/A  
Rank: asset  
Serial number: 66793266  
status: active duty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> serial number for Winter Soldier/asset is not canon


	2. reassemble into asset

The force of the blasting water showed him up against the concrete wall, knocking his head against it. His temple exploded into pain, but he knew better than to scream, biting his lip hard enough to bleed. That mixed with the blood running down his cheek and dripped to the floor, there mixing with near freezing water that kept him pinned to the wall, helpless and shaking.  
“That is enough”  
The water shut off, and he collapsed to the floor, shaking and crying.  
“Sergeant Barnes”  
Who is that? Why does that man’s voice sound so familiar?  
“Do you recognize this name?”  
He shook his head weakly, looking up at the man, taking in his nearly bald head, round glasses, and short stature. “Hmm,” the man muttered, scribbling on a clipboard. “Get up”  
He stood, taller than the man even hunched over in a vain attempt to conserve body heat, or protect his modesty, he didn’t know which it was. Nothing he did made sense no matter how much he thought about it. His world was confusing, cold, and made of concrete. Someone threw a pair of pants at him and he hastily pulled them on- or as hastily as one could with one arm and intense shakiness.  
“Come with me” The man said, wobbling along. He followed silently, until they got to a room with florescent lighting and a steel examination table. “lie down there”  
He did so, panic beginning to overcome him, but with no context as to why.  
Context came in the form of needles and pain. At some point he ended up on his stomach, his left shoulder mostly numb, but with pressure occasionally registering in his foggy brain. And pain, but the pain wasn’t on his shoulder, it radiated down his spine, each vertebrae searing. He couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything, helpless and prone on the table.  
He awoke, unsure of how long he’d been unconscious or when he’d fainted, but as he came to, every muscle, every bone, every gooddamn molecule of his body was wracked with pain. He wasn’t on the table anymore, but on the floor in an unfamiliar room. The cold concrete floor was slight relief to his aching body, but not enough, not nearly enough. People were talking, standing around him, one man tapping his foot three inches from his head. “Well Zola, you’ve done it. You’ve broken him. Now what are you going to do with the boy?”  
“Rebuild him. Into a weapon for our own use.”  
“Don’t we have less fragile weapons?”  
There was a familiar short laugh, “you think he is fragile? Would you survive a fall of several hundred feet from a moving train? The only thing fragile about him is his mind.”  
Asshole.  
Who are you?  
Wait- no. that’s me.  
No  
Zola’s a jackass.  
But…  
He’s right though. I am weak.  
STEVE HELP! STEVE!  
Who?  
“I suppose so. But your weapon only has one arm.”  
“Howard Stark is building a prosthesis. He believes for veterans.”  
“I suppose he isn’t entirely wrong.”  
War you were in a war, what war?  
Stop thinking.  
No.  
Steve, please…  
“He’s awake, Doctor.”  
“Ah, good, I have some techniques I would much like to try.”  
Zola’s face appeared above him. “Get up.”  
He tried to stand, but only managed to kneel, supporting his shaking frame with his remaining arm.  
“I said GET UP!” Zola’s boot slammed into his stomach, knocking him down and stealing his breath.  
He kept trying to rise, but Zola kept kicking him down, screaming, until he stopped, one hand over his ear, the other pressed to the concrete floor, curled onto his side and screamed. Then a soldier dragged him to his feet, and forced a mask- a muzzle- over the lower half of his face.  
“That does not seem like a particularly effective technique doctor.”  
“would you rather I take out my frustrations on you?”  
The man gave a dry chuckle and half a smile before grabbing onto the dark haired, one armed prisoner, “Where are we taking him?”  
“To laboratory three. Put him in the chair, I’ll be in once I obtain a few things.”  
He was hauled away, stumbling along with his captor, whose grip dug into his already bruised abdomen. After a what seemed a lifetime of walking, he was unceremoniously dumped onto the floor of a sterile white room, with only a metal device, that to him, looked like some sort of chair, but with a multitude of devices attached and surrounding it, a table with neatly sorted metal tools- a scalpel, pliers, maybe a drill- and an actual chair. He felt a surge of fear and nausea- something about this room was familiar, and it was bad. Bile rose in his throat, and he swallowed forcibly, “please…”  
Zola had returned, “Do not speak”  
Bucky surged to the surface of his mind, “go to hell”  
Zola smiled nastily. “Put him in the chair. We shall see if my new techniques cause a more effective and permanent loss of memory and self.”  
Bucky was dragged into the contraption, strapped in even as he kicked and screamed. Zola loomed up beside him, fiddling with the machinery of his torture device. He lowered several pieces over Bucky's skull with a series of mechanical clicks. after a few further adjustments, some sort of rubbery gag was shoved into Bucky's mouth. Then the world dissolved into white light and pain. No pain he'd ever felt before compared with the landslide in his skull. he couldn't think, couldn't move, couldn't breathe.  
He only realized he'd been screaming after the pain stopped. He panicked, not knowing where he was or how he'd gotten there. He was pulled from the machine and immediately collapsed. The man with round panes of glass over buggy eyes bared his teeth, his lips turned up at the corners. He tried to get away, get into a corner, something. The man was asking him questions but he didn't understand, his voice sounded like screeches and static. Then he turned to another man, said something to him, and the other man approached. he cowered in fear, but didn't resist when the man picked him up and dragged him out of the room and into another.  
He was thrown onto a metal slab and strapped down, then the slab was wheeled into some kind of tube. He couldn't move, could barely breathe, but all his instincts told him to run, screamed at him to get the hell away when the machine began whirring and clicking. When it finally stopped, The glasses man reappeared, something sharp and shining in one hand, a vial of reddish liquid in the other. He watched helplessly as the needle broke the skin of his arm and the liquid disappeared into his bloodstream. It spread, a cold sensation followed by total paralysis. Then he watched the man approach his head with the- the scalpel. he felt a vague tugging at his scalp and a kind of prickling. It seemed to take hours, whatever it was. when it was done, another man was brought in.  
"focus"... "you will obey orders"..."желание ржaвый Семнадцать Рассвет Печь Девять добросердечный возвращение на родину Один грузовой вагон"..."are you ready to comply"  
"Ready to comply"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the Russian text is the "winter soldier code words" from Civil war. the man telling Bucky to focus and initially implanting the code words is the evil doctor from Agent Carter, but I can't remember his name!


End file.
